Pieces of Sky (2 page)

Startled from her worries, Jessica Thornton glanced across the aisle of the jouncing stagecoach to find Mr. Bodine staring at her breasts. Again. Ever since he’d boarded that morning, the man had engaged in the most astounding repertoire of activities to gain her attention—snoring, gawking, scratching, spitting, and now—wonder of wonders—actual words.

She ignored him. That was her plan. No conversation, no eye contact, no behavior that would draw notice; anonymity was her best protection. She just hoped it would be more effective against John Crawford than it apparently was on Bodine.

“I said, are you married?”

She glanced at the other passengers, fearful they had overheard. Stanley Ashford, the dapper railroad representative, dozed, his fair head bobbing against his chest. Across from him napped Maude Kinderly, slumped against the window frame, her coalscuttle bonnet mashed against her cheek, frizzy gray curls stuck to her brow. Her grown daughter, Melanie, was engrossed in another of her lurid dime novels. Jessica turned to Bodine.

“I am a widow.” That was the story she had decided upon when she left England two months earlier, thinking it might provide respectability and protection from unwanted discourse.

“A widow.” He grinned. “Wanna get married then?”

“I do not.”

His smile faded. “It’s not a bad offer, considerin’.”

“Considering what?”

“Well, you’re kinda tall and you got that devil hair and a funny way of talking, but I’m not picky.” Somehow mistaking her stony silence for interest, he expounded on his offer. “I got diggin’s over by Silver City,” he told her breasts. “Not much yet, but promisin’. If you wanted, I could put up a soddy.”

“I do not want, nor will I ever want, a soddy.” Whatever that was.

“You’d rather a cabin, I guess.”

“No. Never. Absolutely not.” How many ways must she say it? She pressed a limp hanky to her brow, wondering what she could possibly have done to elicit such an offer—her third within a week and all from total strangers. Apparently women were so scarce in this wasteland, even twenty-six-year-old spinsters were preyed upon. She wondered if that would hold true should she open her traveling cape to reveal she was also five and a half months pregnant.

Merciful heavens, if Annie could see her now. All those years preaching decorum to her little sister, and now here she was fending off the advances of a strange man on a public conveyance. The irony of it was so ludicrous she didn’t know whether to burst into peals of hysterical laughter or collapse with a wail of despair.

But then, ladies never wailed and rarely laughed aloud. As expressly stated in Pamphlet Five: “Public displays of emotion are to be avoided. Laughter must be subdued, and tears, if necessary, must flow in a discreet manner into a spotless linen held delicately to the mouth.” Exactly as she had written it in her lovely office at Bickersham Hall in quiet, civilized Posten Cross, Northumberland, England.

Anguish clutched at her throat. Had Annie received her letter? Did her sister suspect why Jessica had run? Did she wonder what had become of her?

The coach lurched, throwing her against the door and driving her straw skimmer halfway down her forehead. Blinded by ribbons and plumes, she grappled for the safety strap and dug in her heels, barely keeping herself from toppling to the floor. With a hiss of irritation, she shoved the hat out of her eyes to find Mr. Bodine grinning at her bosom.

She was not unaccustomed to the attention of men. Perhaps it was because of her height. She was tall, but not freakishly so, despite what that dwarfish Frenchman said in New Orleans. Or perhaps it was her hair that drew notice. Some men liked red hair. She did not. In her case it came with unruly curls, a tendency to freckle, and a reputation for temper, which she felt was totally unfounded. She was neither voluptuous in figure nor flirtatious in manner, and although some might consider her passably attractive, no one had ever called her beautiful. Yet men looked at her, then they looked again. She found such assessments demeaning and intrusive. To armor herself against them, she had developed a directness of manner that most men found off-putting, which was precisely her intent. Obviously, Mr. Bodine did not.

He nudged her foot with the toe of his crusty boot. “You a manhater?”

“I’m learning,” she muttered. Men were betrayers and deceivers, violent faithless creatures, and there had never been a one in her life who had not let her down . . . a lesson learned by a father’s abandonment and a brother-in-law’s fist, and now reinforced by the inimitable Mr. Bodine, quite the nastiest of the lot.

“Maybe you’re mail order. Lots of men send off for wives.”

“Like ordering a farm implement? Lovely. But no.” Realizing the man would persist unless she satisfied his curiosity, she added, “I am an authoress and a milliner.”

“A miller? You make flour?”

“Hats.” Were they even speaking the same language? “I also write pamphlets on deportment for persons of quality. Shall I quote a few pages?”

He studied her hat, once a lovely creation of straw and satin, now a drooping dusty tangle of tattered ribbon and wilted plumes. “Hats like that?”

“Precisely.”

“So you’re a whore then.”

Her mouth fell open.

“Mrs. Thornton is a lady,” a voice cut in before she could gather her wits.

Glancing over, she met Mr. Ashford’s gaze and quickly looked away, heat rushing into her face. Stanley Ashford might not be as well turned out as a proper English gentleman, but he was clean, which set him apart from most of the Westerners she had met. That he had overheard and felt compelled to remark upon Bodine’s vulgar comment was mortifying.

“I think you should apologize.”

“But look what she’s wearing,” Bodine argued. “Good women wear poke bonnets. Only whores wear frilly hats like that.”

Jessica waited for Mr. Ashford to leap to her defense, but he was suddenly engrossed in the sharpness of the crease in his trouser leg. Confidence waned. She eyed the hideous grosgrain bonnet mashed into the side of Maude’s face. “That can’t be true,” she argued weakly. “Only a—a—” She faltered, unable to say the word.

Mr. Ashford continued grooming his trousers. Bodine stared at her chest.

Preposterous
. Throughout Northumberland her hats were considered the epitome of style. “I have never heard of such a thing.” Yet even as she spoke, memories rose in her mind—men leering from saloon doorways—calls and whistles as she walked by. All because of her hat?

“I shouldn’t worry, ma’am,” Ashford told her. “It’s a very pretty hat.”

“A downright doozy,” Bodine seconded.

Possibly it was the condescension in Ashford’s voice, or perhaps the smirk on Bodine’s tobacco-stained mouth, or the lowering realization that her lovely hat had drawn more attention than she had, but something within Jessica snapped. She rounded on Bodine. “Are you implying the sole provocation for your unsolicited attentions is some backwoods misinterpretation of the latest European fashions?”

“Huh?”

“Did you approach me because of my hat?”
You leprous cretin
.

“Well, yeah. I thought—”

“Pray, think no more, Mr. Bodine!” And with a flourish that sent hatpins flying, Jessica snatched the offending hat from her head and sailed it out the open coach window.

Stunned silence.

Then Bodine slapped his knee and guffawed. Melanie Kinderly stopped reading to gawk at her, obviously finding Jessica’s behavior even more titillating than her book. Thankfully, Maude slept through it all.

Mr. Ashford pursed his lips beneath his neat blond mustache. “This climate can be quite harsh, ma’am. I hope you don’t come to regret such a rash action.”

She already did. Heavens, what insane perversity had come over her?

Bodine elbowed Ashford. “Think if I say her dress is flashy, she’ll toss it out, too?”

Battling an urge to drive the tip of her parasol through Mr. Bodine’s chest, Jessica stared down at her clenched hands. She should have stayed in England. She should have signed over the deed to Bickersham Hall as Crawford demanded, or bowed to the mining consortium.

But would she have been safe even then? Once Crawford had the land and coal royalties in hand, what need would he have for any of them? And then there was the baby she carried. How could she explain to Annie that the husband she adored had raped and impregnated her sister?

Rage engulfed her. No, running was her only option. As long as she held the deed and stayed out of his reach, Crawford wouldn’t dare harm any of them.
That rotter.
She sucked air past her clenched teeth, so furious her body shook.

It wasn’t fair. None of this was her fault. She had done nothing wrong.

For one awful moment she wanted to dig her fingers into her own body, claw through flesh and tendon and bone to tear out the life growing within. If only she had fought harder. If only she had stopped him before he wrapped the silk—

“Are you all right, Mrs. Thornton?”

Jessica jerked up her head to find Melanie Kinderly staring at her. She blinked, still trapped in the horror of the past, until slowly her mind calmed. She took a deep breath, let it out, took another. “Y-Yes, I am well, thank you.”

“You’re sure? You’re very pale.”

The worry in the younger woman’s eyes almost made Jessica weep. It had been so long since she’d heard a kind word. “It’s the heat. I fear I’m unaccustomed to it.”

Melanie nodded in sympathy. Blessed with a sweet face, lovely blond hair, and a gentle aspect, she seemed a most pleasant young woman. To Jessica’s mind, her only drawbacks were a bent toward romanticism and an overly biddable nature, of which her mother seemed to take full advantage with her constant demands. It was no surprise the poor woman took refuge in books. Glad of the distraction, Jessica motioned to the one Melanie held now, the cover of which boasted a rather florid drawing of a man on a rearing steed. “Is your book enjoyable?”

“Oh, yes. It’s a true story, you know. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?” Sudden animation brightened Melanie’s slightly protruding gray eyes. “Barnabas O’Shay, the Angel-Faced Killer of Buffalo Gap? He’s from England, too, although over there he’s better known as the Murderous Marquis of Cornwall. Do you know him?”

O’Shay? Marquis of Cornwall? Could Colonials truly be this ignorant?

“He doesn’t exist.” Seeing Melanie’s confusion, Jessica explained. “O’Shay is Irish, not English. And there is no Marquis of Cornwall.

Cornwall is a duchy held by Edward, Prince of Wales and heir to the throne of England.”

“Oh.” With an uncertain smile, Melanie turned back to her book.

Jessica mentally kicked herself. When had she become so snappish and rude? She seemed angry all the time and that was most unlike her. It was as if Crawford’s attack had changed her, separated her forever from the person she had been, and now she couldn’t seem to find her way back to herself. And at times like this, after doing something thoughtless or unkind, she realized how much that change had cost her, and how she no longer knew or particularly liked the woman she had become.

Forcing her mind from those vexing thoughts, she looked out the window, hoping to glimpse something of interest—a bird, a tree, anything green that didn’t have thorns, spines, or a flicking tongue. She had never seen such a desolate landscape or choked down so much dust. It coated her skin, her eyeballs, left a gritty residue on her teeth.

Yet despite the discomfort, she found herself oddly drawn to the incredible vista beyond the window. In some unaccountable way, it reminded her of the bluffs above the North Sea. All that empty space. So much sky. The vastness of it uplifted her, challenging her with possibility and awakening her to hope.

A woman could lose herself out there. Or with a bit of help, a woman might find herself and begin anew beyond the taint of the past. A heady thought.

Heat built until it seemed to suck the very air from her lungs. Boredom ran rampant. Mr. Ashford carefully picked his jacket sleeves free of lint. Melanie continued reading while Maude slumped lower and lower against the door. Jessica tried to doze as well, but the smells emanating from Bodine reminded her of a refuse barge on the Thames and had her stomach bouncing even more than the coach. And with each bounce, the need to relieve herself grew. She doubted she could be less comfortable. Then Maude Kinderly awoke.

“Are we at the stopover yet?” Without waiting for a response, Maude unstuck the bonnet from the side of her face, and launched into another of her endless diatribes, fully refreshed from her nap. “Isn’t this heat ghastly? I don’t know how the wretched people in this area can bear it, although the Colonel says they deserve no better, foul degenerates that they are. Drunken Indians, Mexican banditos, Texicans—the list is endless. I could go on for hours.”

Please don’t,
Jessica prayed, hoping to avoid yet another catalog of complaints.

“Daughter, is there any rosewater left? Look in my bag. Hurry, girl. My head is pounding. What I wouldn’t give for a cool pitcher of water!”

Just hearing the word made Jessica squirm.

Melanie lifted a voluminous carpetbag from beneath Maude’s feet, opened it, and peered inside. “I don’t see it, Mama.”

“Oh, honestly, can’t you do anything but read those silly books?” Maude grabbed the bag and began rummaging through it. “It’s not here.” She looked around as if seeking a target for her ire. She settled on Jessica. “Mrs. Thornton, wherever is your hat?”

“What hat?” Jessica asked, discomfort making her contrary.

Melanie gave her a startled look. “It blew out the window, Mama.”

“Indeed? How careless. You foreigners.” Maude dropped the bag to the floorboards. “I pray Santa Fe isn’t this hot. Dreadful, dreadful country. Nothing like Baltimore. And Fort Union! Whoever heard of such a place? I just hope the Colonel knows what we’ve suffered to reach him. Are we slowing? I think we’re slowing.” She leaned out the window then drew back with a look of disgust. “A hovel. I daresay the food will be horrid. Be sure to leave on your gloves.”